


Checkmate, dinner?

by Nalou



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Chess, Co-workers, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 04:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalou/pseuds/Nalou
Summary: Charles starts his new job, and on the first day he already seems to have pushed the wrong buttons to his co-worker, the mysterious night manager he never sees.What is better than a game of chess to make amends?





	Checkmate, dinner?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone !
> 
> I wrote that story fo the NaNoWriMo camp on April, as my wordcount was at 5k. a month later, I only had a few words left, but couldn't hit the goal. That's too bad, but I finished it anyway later.
> 
> Thanks to [Flo'wTralala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowTralala), [Nauss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nauss) and [Judith H](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Mary_Holmes) for their wonderful work as cheering me, bêta-ing me, and love me. You girls are the gems of my life.
> 
> I also want to thank YOU, reader, for coming here ! Thank you for all the kudos and the comments ! They all warm my heart up everytime.

Erik starts his shift with his usual routine. Getting inside a Tyvek. Putting a mask on. Going on the beat around his production line. Watching every night worker getting into place and start to work after the afternoon employees give them a summary of what happened during their shift.

 

He quickly dismisses their useless chat as he walks through the various stages of production.

 

He’s not really at ease in that windowless building. He feels trapped when not near the exit, much more comfortable when he is in his office - shared office, but his office anyway. Alone, for a start, and with a view to the forest bordering the building.

 

He never sees his day counterparts in there, and it’s fine by him.

 

Mundanities, thanks but no thanks. He is not one for small talk anyway. That’s why being the night shift manager, for years now, is perfect.

 

Less people, less fuss.

 

His Tyvek torn and thrown into a bin, he finally walks freely in the non-secured area of the compound and goes behind the front desk to climb the stairs to the offices.

 

Each line of production has its own manager in his own office. Or, he should say, its own trio of managers, the first one from 5am to 1pm, the next from 1pm to 9pm, and the last from 9pm to 5am. Erik is never near the office at the beginning nor at the end of each of his shifts, so he never sees his afternoon co-manager, really. The other one - Hank, he said when he introduced himself a few years ago - is always there early in the morning so Erik nods at him when he leaves the controlled area. The man is young, and seems to like to be inside because he never uses the office. He just sits at one of the desks near the workers and furiously types on his laptop while he makes experiments - seems to like it, the damn sod, good for him and good riddance. Erik tries to spend the less time possible with him, because he gives him the creeps. Hank always talks so fast when he finds something he deems interesting that he becomes barely intelligible.

 

Earlier in the week, Erik has seen the note in front of the CEO’s office, the one saying that the man he has been sharing his office with for years now, is leaving - he didn’t bother showing up at his farewell party. See, Erik is a loner, and he is very much fine with it. The man was ever discrete, respecting Erik‘s boundaries, so much so that if Erik hadn’t seen the notes he left on a daily basis, he could have sworn nobody occupied his plastic and metal chair during daytime.

 

Then it is quite a surprise for him to see clusters of items on his desk, on the sparse folders that contain the previous years’ worth of work, even on the windowsill. Mostly trinkets, medical and scientific journals, fluffy and colorful pens in _his_ pen-holder. Erik looks quickly at the words written next to the door, and no, he didn’t make a mistake ; it is _his_ office. Next to the bin sits a now empty cardboard box, and if the newbie thinks that Erik is going to fold and dump it for him, he’s seriously mistaken. Erik digs for his latest file beneath the stuff before losing his patience and quartering everything that is not his on the other side of the desk so that it’s not on his sight anymore.

 

Finally he can start to work. He has things to do, since the newbie has surely done nothing on his first day. He rummages for his pen and it takes too much time to find it for his liking, not helping his already foul mood. The night will be long.

 

xXx

 

 

When he comes back the next day, he finds the desk a little bit more tidy. Maybe the guy understood he was crossing a line when he had seen all of his stuff piled in a corner. However, Erik finds a yellow post-it on his desk phone and peels it to see it more closely. The note is scribbled in a sloppy handwriting, and it takes him a few seconds to decipher it.

 

_Hi, just started yesterday. Wanted to say hello since I hadn’t the opportunity to introduce myself in person. New afternoon manager. Have a nice shift. C.XAVIER._

 

Erik crushes the note before throwing it in the bin. Useless to keep it, and he won’t bother to answer. He goes to his white board to wipe the notes he wrote for the day before, so that the marker won’t dry off, and takes one of his chess piece-shaped magnet to hang the schedule for next week with. He has underlined some important informations for the newbie, like major meetings. Erik is a loner, not a sadist who wants him to fail. Soon the lad will adapt and won’t bother him anymore and that’ll be fine.

 

By the end of his shift, Erik leaves another post-it, not to be friendly but because another manager has borrowed their stapler and Erik needs the newbie to get it back before his next shift.

 

Maybe one day, the newbie will have a name, but Erik still has no idea of it except for his last name and an initial, so it stays like that for now. He leaves the office after his last tour without a second thought about him.

 

He nearly forgets him completely by the end of the week. There have been no more post-its, the stapler has come back to its place and nothing significant has happened.

 

He comes back on Monday to see his white board cleared of all sheets and his magnets moved. The newbie has drawn a giant square and then eight by eight squares inside. He has positioned each chess piece-shaped magnet Erik owns in its rightful square and has completed the set with classic magnets taped with notes indicating their rank.

 

A white pawn has been moved two squares up.

 

Well.

 

A chessboard drawn on his whiteboard.

 

And the man visibly wants to play. Well… Why not?

 

He stays in front of the board, looks at it thoughtfully, and then decides to move his left knight. He likes playing chess - as if the magnets weren’t giving him away - and he likes to start with full force. He doesn’t even register that the man has once again touched his stuff without asking or being asked. Nevermind, after his move he goes back to his desk to work. He doesn’t think once that this game will see its end.

 

The next day, another white pawn has been moved on the whiteboard. A second dull move, but it can hide something more, Erik thinks while he makes his own choice just after getting inside his office. He then goes to sit at his desk and think about the afternoon-shift manager. It never bothered him before, but now, getting some interaction with him, Erik wonders how does the man look like. Not many people play chess these days, so he imagines a lean, geeky one, with big spectacles and a balding head - he doesn’t know why the man should look like Hank, actually. He sees corduroy pants, tweed jacket and knitted scarf.

 

xXx

 

Charles is glad to see he was right about the night manager - Mr Lehnsherr, says the nameplate at the door. He had guessed the man, hidden behind his strict way of organizing his working area, would share at least one of his own interests, and the magnets had been a nice help to define that. He is thankful the man answered to his invitation for a game.

 

Hank, whom he has known for some years now thanks to his sister, Raven - the poor lad is in love with her since the day they met - told him almost nothing about the man who works at night. It seems that the morning manager is a bit afraid of him. He doesn’t even know how Lehnsherr looks like outside of an overall, behind piecing light-coloured eyes, even if he sees the man every working day when Hank starts.

 

Charles sighs while contemplating the chessboard he drew. He knows he’ll have to find out by himself, and he kind of likes it. Mr Lehnsherr is like a riddle for him, and it often occupies his mind when he is not busy with paperwork. He likes to observe people, or at least, when he can’t see them in person, observe their living or working habits.

 

But the man doesn’t give him much of a bone to gnaw at. Everything is neat, labelled and ordered, not a single sheet of paper gets out of the way. There are stickers with his name on it on every desk tool he has, and he likes to get it back as soon as possible when he lends it, as Charles has seen on his third day here.

 

There are no photographs, no kid’s drawings, nor personal objects to interpret. Everything is strictly professional. Charles has sensed that he had crossed a line on his first day here. He hadn’t meant to leave his stuff like that but he had been presented to so many people that by the time he had to leave (he had an appointment with Raven), he hadn’t finished clearing his new space _at all_ , dashing through the door before remembering it. The next day, everything had been put aside and he had felt shame for bothering his new roommate (the idea is strange, but thrilling, to think of him as a roommate) even if it wasn’t really his fault. Still, he now is there to make amends for that little mistake and show him what Charles Xavier is capable of when getting at work.

 

He makes his move of the day before starting to work on a new datasheet they gave him to analyze. He likes playing with numbers, as they always have easily given him the answers he is looking for. He could have studied mathematics. But biology and medicine had always been much more tempting to him.

 

He has to peek through one of Mr Lehnsherr’s files to get an important value from last month, and is greeted by his nice and neat handwriting. Charles had seen it once on the note he had left him, but to see it on full pages is even more satisfying. It is easy to find what he is looking for in such an neatly organized file.

 

Charles really hopes the night manager will be able to decipher his own horrible, frantic handwriting. He has often tried to make it better, but no matter how long he takes to write the words, he hasn’t seen any improvement.

 

He is even more hopeful when he has to leave Erik another note saying that one of the night workers has called and won’t come tonight because he is sick.

 

xXx

 

When Erik comes to his office, his eyes are drawn first to the yellow post-it stuck next to the chess board. He takes it in his left hand and reads what his colleague has tried to tell him concerning the worker - he has at least deciphered a name that rings a bell to him. Making an effort to read the rest of the message immediately triggers his frustration. he takes another sticky note and his fountain pen.

 

_Have you ever learned to write properly? E.L_

 

He then checks his emails to cool a bit off before concentrating on the game on his whiteboard. As soon as he has played his move, he will be able to concentrate on his work, but the game is becoming harder as the various pieces have been moved. It’s not just a start anymore, and Erik‘s drive for competition has flared when he noticed his opponent knew what he was doing. He realizes he missed playing, but except for his late father, he never found someone to share that pleasure with, Erik not bothering to know someone deep enough to share some time leisuring with them. But he won’t ever share that thought with the afternoon manager.

 

He can finally start to work, using the datasheet the other man worked on for most of his shift - refusing to admit he did a really fine job. He only thinks about the weekend that will start soon, and the fact that he won’t have to think about the guy sharing his desk and what he would look like. This particular thought has bothered Erik a bit too much since the man’s arrival, and he doesn’t like it.

 

He is much better at ignoring unostentatious people. He likes it that way. Being alone is what suits him the best. No disagreeing. No fighting. No misunderstanding... No pain. He has already suffered enough for a lifetime by loving another human being.

 

He’ll forget about all of that at the bar on Saturday, anyway.

 

xXx

 

Charles waits for his sister inside the pub they chose together to celebrate his new job. But as always, she is late. He huffs a laugh, used to it, as he orders his first dry single malt, and starts sipping it as he watches the patrons slowly filling the space between the tables and the bar. He could at least busy himself as he waits. He gets an eyeful of beautiful creatures, guesses and makes up their lives, meaning to share a glance with someone bolder than the others in order to lure them to come and sit next to him to start a discussion.

 

He’s in the middle of his second drink when he spots a nice piece of ass clad in black jeans, the man owning that ass standing at the bar with a foot propped up over the railing twenty centimeters above the floor. As Charles’ eyes rake over the body, he can see the narrow, well defined hips, a broad back stretching the fabric of the grey cotton tee-shirt as his elbows rest on the flat surface of the oak counter.  From where he is, Charles can see the shadows created by the man’s well defined muscles on his arms. He can see the electric light making his short auburn hair shine as his head tilts backwards when he finishes his drink. And that’s the only cue Charles needs to make his move. He empties his own glass hastily and gets up, refusing to feel the light-headedness it gives him, before reaching the bar just next to his prey.

 

Charles raises his arm to get the barmaid’s attention and when she comes to him, he asks:

 

“One more whisky and whatever this gentleman drinks please, darling.”

 

“Sure.” is all she answers as she picks up their empty glasses. Charles now looks up at the man besides him - a good head taller than himself, and he could shudder at the idea if he were a tad more inebriated - to see that this beauty is looking right to him with eyes so sharp and clear it reminds him of a glacier, a blue-grey so translucent he could feel the polar winter against his skin. Above them, one brow is quirked, as though questioning him just by the movement. Charles can’t have enough of this sight, the man’s face a regal to his own eyes.

Charles beams at him before introducing himself as he extends his hand between them.

 

“Erik.” the man answers, his tongue clipping at the last letter, getting a faint trace of germanic accent. He then takes Charles’ hand and shakes it firmly.

 

“It’s really nice to meet you. I hope you don’t mind me coming to you, I couldn’t resist.”

 

The barmaid comes back to them at this moment with their order, and Charles thanks her without even moving his eyes from Erik‘s.

 

“So, what are you doing here alone, if you don’t mind me asking?” Charles beams once again at him before taking a sip at his fresh drink.

 

Erik doesn’t answer at first, and Charles sees his eyes moving slightly as the man looks carefully at him. He feels bold, unashamed, but why bother being so shy when it gets you nowhere? With a little nudge from the alcohol, he dares. Dares to approach such a beauty, a loner seeming to just wait and see if something would happen.

 

The only answer he gets is a half-mouthed smirk, teeth showing a bit in a weird but nonetheless charming way.

 

“Would you mind if I asked you the same question then, Charles?”

 

“Waiting for my sister, as always. But right now, I’m not in such a hurry for her to arrive, actually. I feel like having a nice little chat with you, if you’d agree to it? Maybe we can sit somewhere?”

 

“You sure? What are you going to do when she finally comes?”

 

“I kind of like the way you never truly answer my questions, Erik, but don’t worry, if you’re afraid I’m going to abandon you when she comes, I can as well send her a text right now to tell her not to come at all.”

 

Charles was initially saying that as a jest, but he is relieved to see the other man scoff, clearly not expecting this kind of answer but seeming pleased nonetheless.

 

“Okay, you win. I’ll be selfish and ask for this text, then.”

 

Charles’ eyebrows shot up.

 

“I wasn’t expecting that so soon, but alright! I certainly won’t complain.”

 

He fishes for his phone and starts to write an excuse for his sister while Erik observes him, Charles feeling Erik‘s eyes raking over his face as he waits for him to finish. Charles knows Raven won’t really hold any grudge against him even if he’s sure he’ll hear about that for a long time. But he’s ready to suffer through it, as the man sipping from his glass in front of him looks more and more interested to spend some time in his company. He smiles at him as he sends the text.

 

“Wanna grab a bite?”

 

xXx

 

Charles is woken up from his blissed-out like sleep by ruffling sounds next to him, and he painfully opens an eye to see Erik getting dressed. He grunts, throat dry and brain still not fully responding, before rolling on his side to put a hand on Erik‘s muscular thigh.

 

The previous night, they ended up in his apartment soon after leaving the bar, kissing in the first cab that stopped to get them, groping like teenagers in heat in the elevator to his flat, undressing each other in the entry hall before falling on his sofa, not even getting as far as his bed for the first round.

 

This round had been intense, fast, both of them seeking release from all the built-up tension from the evening.

 

They later (and finally) got on his bed, and Charles had been able to really discover the fine body under the clothes, to caress the smooth and golden skin, to kiss every square inch of his fine torso, to make Erik groan and grunt and plea for more. He had reveled in seeing Erik arch beneath his touch, his attentions. And Erik answering to him with the same fervor had made the process so much enthralling and stupendous.

 

They had finally fallen asleep later, cuddling, contented. Charles hadn’t had such devotion directed to him and to his pleasure for a very long time, and he could only hope for more.

 

But now, Erik barely looks at him as he dresses. Charles refuses to admit he feels pained by this rejection as he sits on the bed, smoothing a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“At least stay for breakfast? I’ll make pancakes.” Charles asks, his voice thin, far away from what it was the previous night.

“I can’t.”

A pause. Erik puts his shirt on, gets up to tie his belt.

“Alright.” Charles tries not to sound defeated. That only was a one night stand. It was predictable and understandable, and he shouldn't have let his hopes get so high. He sighs before looking up to the man about to leave. Erik is watching him silently, ready to go, so Charles holds his gaze and smiles. Better not to show anything more and keep some dignity intact.

 

xXx

 

Charles keeps his routine for the end of the weekend, and goes to work early in order to stay busy. He stays for a while with Hank before his shift ends, and they actively talk about science and work, both passionate about the subject. Charles lets Hank pour his enthusiasm into him and make him forget about the sting of the rejection - still present despite the absurdity of it. When it’s time for him to go back to the office, he says his goodbyes and leaves the young lad to pack his things before going home.

 

Once settled, he looks at the whiteboard thoughtfully before turning his back to it and getting his head full of work.

 

He doesn’t linger at the end of his shift, he has to take Raven to a restaurant to make amends for the other night. Ironic, really.

 

xXx

 

Erik comes at work on Monday and goes on his usual tour then climbs up the stairs. He opens his jacket before getting it off his shoulders and on his desk chair. A cursory glance around the office tells him his afternoon counterpart was there, but didn’t play his move on the chess board. Erik checks the amount of work waiting for him, and doesn’t see anything alarming, that would have retained the other player from making his move. He doesn’t see any post-it either. He leaves one with a big question mark on it, the lines blackened by the many passages of his pen near the game, and starts to work. It’s not his problem if the other one abandons. His brain can’t stop wondering despite his efforts, and by the end of the day, he has left a second note saying _Hope you’re alright_ , while hating himself a bit for it _._

 

The next day, he finds a _Thank you_ next to the board, and a bishop in B4, in place of one of his rooks.

 

He refuses to acknowledge the small smile that tugs at his lips. He refuses to acknowledge the slight quickening of his heartbeat. He just starts to work.

 

He’s been soft since the weekend, even if he doesn’t want to be. He shouldn’t have indulged the other manager, he’s not even his _friend_ . But the night he spent with the man he met at the bar seems to have softened him a bit. _After_ taking the decision to leave early, despite the big puppy eyes thrown at him for the ten minutes it took him to retrieve his clothes, dress, and make Charles understand that he couldn’t stay for breakfast.

 

Seeing the sadness on his face had been oddly painful to him. He had managed to keep his back to him for so long, and then Erik was watching him, his resolve almost forgotten.

Anyway, it had nothing to do with the afternoon manager, but well, maybe Erik could spare his feelings for once. As a repentance, maybe?

 

He doesn’t even have Charles’ phone number _,_ Erik thinks bitterly. The man he had shared a bed with had been wonderful company to his usual grumpiness and had cheered him up a bit, with all his joyful smiles and jokes and “groovy” exclamations anytime he was amazed by something. But he wouldn’t even dare to contact him after his dry departure. Charles does no  deserve to be reminded of that, anyway.

 

He leaves a new sticky note before departing for the day. _Next time you forget to play, I’ll consider that I won._

 

Coming back the next day as the sun sets, he’s amused to find another post-it over his own, saying _NEVER!_ in bold capitals, childish writing and childish reaction reminiscing him of Charles, winning him a crooked smile. The young man had marked him more than he would have liked, and he is now contemplating the playful tone of his colleague's remark with something akin to affection.

 

He gets closer to the board to play his move and notices another one under the first, saying this time, _It is my birthday today, I saved you a piece of cake in the top left drawer. Hope you’ll like it._

 

Erik opens the desk to see the promised and generous piece of chocolate cake on a recycled cardboard plate and takes it out to observe it before mouthing some crumbs. And they taste like heaven. He sits to eat, even if he already had a dessert before coming to work, and can’t do anything but savor it. No one will ever know he made shameful noises while appreciating it.

 

Well, that’s a damn good piece of cake.

 

He needs to say so.

 

This time, a post-it won’t be enough, so he gets a sheet of paper from the printer and writes,

 

 

_Happy birthday, then._

_I wish you all good, etcetera._

 

_You HAVE to give me the address of the baker who made that cake. It was delicious._

 

_So, how old are you, if I may ask?_

 

_By the way, will you be able to go to the administration department, tomorrow? We will need the B13 form to grant access for the new equipment. I’ll complete it when I come back, but it’s closed during my shift, as you surely have guessed._

 

_Have a nice day, even if you’ll read that only tomorrow._

 

And finally, he starts the day.

 

 

xXx

 

 

_Hi,_

_Well, you’re not the kind to celebrate a lot, are you? But thank you, it pleases me immensely._

 

_I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to give you any address, except if you want mine - I baked it. I kind of like cooking and baking, even if it isn’t as shared with other people as I would like to. I’m glad I have won the heart of the entire office with this recipe. I’m glad to see that you have kind of a sweet tooth, and i’ll keep that in mind._

 

_Are you afraid of me being a old, balding fellow, happening to remember how to play chess from his last century childhood? Well, sorry to break your image of me, but I just turned 35, actually. May I ask about you in return? I would only be fair._

 

_PS: you’ll find the form just under that - note? letter?_

_PPS: I wouldn't have played that last move, if I were you!_

 

 

Erik chuckles, and then openly laughs while reading the note when he comes that night. The afternoon manager definitely has wits, he can’t deny that. Everything calls for a cocky answer, and he’s going to give him exactly that.

 

xXx

 

Charles arrives the next day with a box full of cookies.

 

He leaves it on the desk on purpose, with the book he has in hand, that he reads on the subway to get here, and gets his satchel down on the floor by the chair.

The note is waiting for him on the whiteboard, pinned under his rook, out of the chess game.

Well, the other player fell into his trap, and he is gloating, showing the fallen piece with pride without knowing what awaits him. Charles loves it. It’s been so long, having an interesting game, as his sister absolutely refuses to play against him, and the only time Hank tried, he failed miserably.

 

Charles get closer to  the wall and tugs at the note to free it from the magnet.

 

 

_I don’t believe you, actually. And I don’t have a sweet tooth._

 

_Well, yeah, I can’t say I was expecting that but, well, we already have Hank as a young manager so… Alright, as I wrote that I saw how old I seemed, so, for once, your wish will be granted. I’m 38. Yeah, I know, barely older than you but already treating you as a youngster. How bad of me. But maybe you’d rather have that than the “old, balding fellow, happening to remember how to play chess from his last century childhood”. What do you think?_

 

_Thanks for the form, by the way. It has been sent back to the admin, so you’ll be able to grant access to the new equipment, if Hank hasn’t done so this morning._

 

_And now you’re the one crying over the loss of your rook… too bad you tried to intimidate me, but that didn’t work._

 

_Enjoy your last remaining moves before you lose._

 

 

Well, _this_ is bold, Charles thinks, a grin on his lips. He takes his pen and reuses the same sheet of paper to answer.

 

 

_I’d rather have you taking me for what I am, if you don’t mind, my friend. No pun intended. Well, maybe. Well, how would you know._

 

_Anyway. I thought you wouldn't believe me. So I brought this jar of cookies, just for you. I'll just… leave it here, on the desk, for you to find when you come. I think you will be able to tell that they are not industrially-made. You know what, maybe tomorrow you'll have something else. Maybe._

 

_38? Wow, such an ancient! Shouldn't you be in a museum exhibit or something? Aren't you afraid to break a bone by coming up the stairs everyday?_

 

_I'm fine with the loss of my rook. Check in two._

 

 

When the sun rises, Charles gets his satchel, takes a last look at the board, checking that the note is in place, and turns around.

 

 

_Okay, fine, the cookies were really good. Happy now?_

 

_I took ten minutes out of my work to try and discover how you could possibly pull a checkmate on me in two moves. I call bluff._

 

 _By the way, you forgot your book, yesterday. I don't think you even have noticed, spaced-out as you seem to be. But P.F. Hamilton? I can see you are a man of culture as well. Never read that book, but I actually enjoyed_ Fallen Dragon _thoroughly._

_I’ve left it on the (empty) box. It seems to be a good saga, what you’ve got here. Maybe I’ll look for the first one to busy myself over the weekend._

_____

 

_Yes, really happy, actually. Glad to hear (read) you admit it, my friend. You may have earned another sweet._

 

 _Oh, glad to find a fellow admirer of Hamilton. His universe - multiple universes, actually - is awesome. His imagination has no limits._ Fallen Dragon _is a good book. The Commonwealth saga has a really fascinating way to show how life would be if we were able to live forever. The greed and the want of a never ending society composed of always the same humans, no matter how many time they choose to erase their memories to change their lives._

_What would this planet be like, if we were able to stay alive, never leaving the world to its new passengers, to the next generation?_

_That’s something I ask myself whenever I doubt my actions. There’s so much truth in science fiction._

 

_Have a nice evening._

 

 

Erik takes his time to look between the last note and the chess board. Well, he’s in deep shit. He didn’t see that coming. The man was right, he shouldn’t have played that move a few days back. He’s been played all along. The last thing he could do is to move his King out of the way of his opponent’s remaining pieces, but it’s only gaining him one more round.

He is so frustrated that he doesn’t even leave an answer at the end of his shift.

 

xXx

 

Charles’ heart is beating painfully hard. He is scribbling as fast as he can on another note.

He wasn’t expecting that. He should have. He knows it’s impossible to know, he knows he’s irrational, but he’s resenting himself for that anyway.

His throat is constricted, his hand holding the pen clammy. The surprise he felt a few minutes ago has left him sweaty.

 

He had been called during his shift because one of the main fabrication units was down with an overheating default. He had came down and put his Tyvek on before joining the crew inside the restricted area. He had struggled, fought, for the robot to start again by finding what caused the overheating, and when he had finally been able to get up, the time had flown away and his shift was over a few minutes ago. Some of his men had stayed with him to help but most of them were already in the locker room to change, and the night shift workers were taking place at their position.

He had barely finished to pack his tools when someone came to him with long, impetuous strides.

“What the _hell_ is going on? Why is there so much delay on this line?”

One of the men mumbled an answer, as Charles stayed silent, stunned and transfixed by the voice.

He had recognized the voice. The stance, the determination in those light-colored eyes above the paper mask.

The night manager, as it seems to be - the one he had been exchanging notes, jabs and a chess game with - is the man he fucked senseless, the man that left him after that without a single thought.

The man he hasn’t stopped thinking about since then.

And then he was just in front of Charles, his lean body clad in a shapeless, disposable suit, with only the upper part of his face visible above the protection, looking at the afternoon manager as if he had grown three heads. Or ten, with a crown on each one of them, if the way his beautiful eyes goggled was any indication. Charles didn’t know how to react, or what to say. And so he grabbed his toolkit from the floor and faced the other man one more time.

 

“Sorry about that. There was an overheating problem on this machine, but it’s okay now. I’ll... Leave you to it, then. Good day, uh, night.”

 

Charles strengthened his grip on the bag’s handle and started to make his way out.

 

“Wait!”

 

Or maybe not. Erik _Lehnsherr_ ’s voice (of course, German, how could he not see?) had been powerful, and a few of his technicians had jumped hearing it. Charles had stopped walking - almost running, really - out of the factory and to his apartment, aiming for his thick blanket to hide him, never to leave again. He doesn't want to go through another humiliation, especially where he works.

So he had turned around, sighing deeply before looking straight into Erik’s eyes that had  seemed slightly widened, and Charles felt a pang of anxiety as he understood that Erik had recognized him.

“Charles? What are you doing here?” Erik asked, disbelief clear in his voice.

“I… I have to go, sorry, but everything should work fine now.”

“I have to talk to you, Charles, wait, about last time, I…”

“Sorry, not now, gotta dash!” Charles cut him short.

He had started to back off, and he turned around to leave with a modicum of dignity. He only heard one of the men of his team that had stayed call after Erik.

 

“What did you want with our manager?”

 

And Charles had fled like the coward he was.

 

xXx

 

So the only words he writes when he is back in his office, as his mind is reeling with apprehension, are,

 

_Checkmate. Dinner?_


End file.
